Franchot Inspired

Short stories vs novels: The subject seems to be controversial, especially from a profitability or marketing standpoint. Of course I want to get paid for writing my fiction, and hopefully paid well enough to survive, however I remain organic in my approach to writing. As I may have mentioned in my introduction, I prefer writing short stories over novels. My love of writing started with short stories, reading the entertaining short fiction in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine as a teenager. The stories in that anthology took me places and heightened my imagination. Combine that with my fascination with episodic TV dramas, fiction in short doses were sealed in my brain.

Online research is at once a blessing and a curse. The topic of short stories vs novels seems endless. Some believe the short story is worthless in the form of financial success for the author while others believe short stories are the “New Novel” due to digital downloads and shrinking attention spans. In my romanticizing mind I’m not finding much on my research about the story itself. Whether it’s a novel or short story, shouldn’t the story matter? I’ve read great novels and short stories, enjoying them equally and size didn’t matter (no pun). I didn’t ponder over word count when I sat back and took perspective of what I enjoyed reading.

Irwin Shaw’s Rich Man, Poor Man. I saw the TV mini series as a pre-teen in 1976. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. In the early 80’s out of curiosity I read the 800 page novel of the same name. I was apprehensive about reading a book that large, but once I started reading it, the number of pages didn’t matter. The story was truly engrossing and after finishing such a large book, I found myself wanting more. The Jordache family stayed with me to this day.

As for short stories, I’ve read many, and that’s the great thing about them; how many you can consume. I’m sure I haven’t read as many novels. Recently I read a great short story, “Piltdown Man, Later Proved to Be a Hoax” by Ralph Lombreglia. I was fortunate enough to have met this talented author. He was my customer at my day job in Boston. He was a tall, handsome gentleman and very down to earth. I regret I didn’t take him up on his offer to check out some jazz clubs in Beantown, but I was crazed at the time, in the midst of moving back to Chicago. His generous going away gift to me was his collection of short stories in “Make Me Work” which included Piltdown Man. The stories were incredible and again, word count had no bearing.

The business side of me thinks, Novel, write that novel to get more money! But the true part of me always wins out. I truly believe somewhere down the line I’ll write another novel, but I’ll have to be inspired to do so. I just can’t turn out work for profit. I’m a short story writer and it won’t change. Either I’ll be read or I won’t. For those of you on either side: team short or team novel, you might be missing out on some great storytelling; after all, isn’t that why we read?

The End

With each passing day I’m more grateful to be a writer. Most of my spare time is spent in coffee shops all across the city, in total solitude, using my imagination on paper. I mentioned before that I once had dreams of writing for television, even acting, but as I learn more about the behind the scenes politics that I see playing out with the TV networks and producers, I have no problem staying right where I am, at present, writing this at a neighborhood Whole Foods Cafe.

Years ago, when I had those big, unrealistic dreams about writing for a big hit TV show, I wasn’t aware of what was really going on in the industry. I was so naive I wasn’t even thinking about making money, only expressing myself creatively. But as I grew and got more serious about my craft, I started researching and learning more about the inner workings of the TV industry.

After reading several books about the business of TV, I learned that it was basically about eyeballs and big bucks. You already know so I won’t bore you with statistics. Simply, more eyeballs on a TV show, means more money in a lot of pockets. A.C. Nielsen (Nielsen Ratings) was the pioneer behind measuring the number of eyeballs on any given program, but now I can only imagine how that has changed with cable networks and other subscription based TV, like Netflix, Hulu and the plethora of digital programming. In other words, they know what we’re watching like never before. Gone are the days of over 80 million viewers on a single TV drama, such as Dallas’ famed “Who Shot Jr?” Phenomenon. Now, with delayed viewing, a TV show can survive with 5-6 million viewers which is considered a hit these days.

The TV show Empire in its first season had over 15 million viewers. That is phenomenal by today’s standards. More on Empire shortly.

Though I’m very happy being a writer of short fiction, I still have a desire to write a TV script, maybe adapt one of my short stories into a teleplay (do they still call them that?), but at this age I’m weary of politics. As great as TV is, and I do believe it’s great, unfortunately, it’s still a reflection of our society. The network executives and producers, not all of them, harbor the same prejudices of anyone else. Is there a job application in the TV industry that lists like regular job applications do, to hire regardless of race, religion, color, national origin, age, marital status, disability, sexual orientation, gender and gender identity? Did I leave any protected class out?

Now back to eyeballs. The number of eyeballs solely dictates which TV shows will survive and which ones won’t, and though I understand it, it leaves no room for creative expression. However, there has been exceptions, like the low rated cop drama, Homicide: Life on the Street. It ran for seven seasons on NBC. In my opinion it was the best cop show ever made and has the accolades to back it up. From what I’ve read over the years, Homicide had a top network executive in its corner and he fought to keep the show on the air. Other TV shows weren’t so lucky and fell prey to the politics of low ratings. Some of my favorites were: NBC’s Boomtown and Dracula, Fox’s The Exorcist and recently cancelled, The Passage. Cancelled not long ago, after one season was Fox’s Pitch. Pitch was an excellent show, way ahead of its time. It centered on the first female, African American, major league baseball player that was integrated onto the all male San Diego Padres. I can’t express to you how great that show was. Why do network executives order these shows to production if they can’t give them a better chance? I know, I know, eyeballs.

I’m a huge fan of One Chicago: Chicago Fire, Chicago PD, and Chicago Med. I’m sure politics played in their favor to keep them on the air. For once, TV politics worked in the favor of the fans. In its first season, Chicago Fire could’ve easily been cancelled as its ratings were low. Had it not been for the clout of Law and Order franchise producer Dick Wolf, I’m certain it would be gone, without any successful spinoffs. Because of Dick Wolf’s legacy with NBC, Chicago Fire, much like TV shows of the past, was given a chance to find an audience. Chicago Fire is now in its 8th season.

Now back to Empire, one of the most watched TV shows to date, an out of the gate ratings powerhouse and gold mine for its network Fox. It was recently announced that Empire is ending after the upcoming sixth season. Though its ratings have declined over the years, it’s still one of Fox’s top rated shows in the coveted 18-49 key demographic. This is where the best dollars for advertising comes in. Unfortunately, Empire’s cancellation is not a surprise, given the worldwide, mostly negative attention of the Jussie Smollett legal circus. This is politics 101 playing out here. Lee Daniels’ sister series Star was abruptly cancelled without any discussion of anymore airings to wrap up its shocking season finale. Empire is given one more season to tie up its storylines, without Jussie Smollett. The Fox network had to tread carefully; it couldn’t announce for certain that the actor was fired, in fear of a political backlash, nor could it abruptly cancel Empire for exactly the same reason. The eyeballs on Empire are mostly African American. No sudden moves can be made here. This is quite interesting, a great soap opera in its own right. What will happen next? Has Jussie’s alleged hate crime hoax caused a domino effect like collapse on all involved? His cast mates came to his defense, sending a letter to the network and Empire’s producers asking them to bring Jussie back. Has Lee Daniels’ own Empire fallen at Fox? Has he now been black-balled? Lee Daniels himself once said Oscar winning actress Mo’Nique was black-balled because of her refusal to reform to the politics of Hollywood.

Speaking of, the politics surrounding Mo’Nique and her connection to Lee Daniels, Tyler Perry, Oprah Winfrey and Steve Harvey, what was behind the decision to cancel Steve Harvey’s successful talk show at NBC? Why is he no longer the host of Little Big Shots and being replaced by Melissa McCarthy? At some point I guess We’ll find out. In the mean time I’ll keep writing my short stories. I’m working on another “Girl’s Night” right now. Hopefully it’ll be released soon. Please cut me some slack. After all, I am the writer, producer, actor, director, everything else and the network.

The End

As artists we’re driven by our passion; whether it be writing, painting, singing, dancing or acting. We’re consumed by our passion, but in our everyday lives we’re at the mercy of the normalcies of society, especially how we live day to day: How we survive. To eat and have a roof over our heads. Unfortunately our art barely pays for that. If ever there was a Catch 22, I’d say it would be trying to live our dreams as artists and surviving, simultaneously. This post is about the day job and how I’ve learned to respect it.

Early on I was so passionate about writing. I didn’t care about anything else. Writing was all I wanted to do. I’d disregard anything that stood in my way, including a day job. I didn’t value a days work, but guess what? Life taught me a few things along the way. As I’ve matured, I’m still quite passionate about writing, but I’ve mellowed, learned to breathe in and accept situations in my life that I have no control over.

Growing up, my family struggled. My story isn’t unique. I wasn’t raised with access to the best of education. What I learned, I taught myself. To stay fed and keep a roof over my head I had to work, and to this very writing I still have a day job, but what’s different, now at 55 years old I don’t curse my employment or look back with contempt at any of the day jobs I’ve held, like I used to, not very long ago, nor do I feel trapped while dreaming desperately of having a lucrative writing career. Ultimately it doesn’t help; if anything I’d say those negative feelings have a negative impact on my creativity. I’ve merged to two worlds: my day job and my creative passions. All of it has helped shape me into the person I am today.

In big cities like Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and Atlanta, for example, cities with aspiring artists in the film and television industry, you’ll see hundreds if not thousands of actors working all kinds of day jobs to stay above the waves, juggling human survival with trying to live their dreams. For some, the juggling act is done without complaint, for others, they do it kicking and screaming. For those that hate it you can usually tell: a bitter server at a restaurant that gives awful service or any other service person that obviously hates their job. Not all of them are struggling artists, but you can bet a good number of them are.

In an episode of one of my favorite TV shows, NYPD Blue, a temporary PAA was hired to work in the squad room, a young male that happened to be a film student. Minutes into the episode you could see that he wanted no part of the job. All he wanted was to drill the detectives for information to help move along whatever film ideas he had in mind. Needless to say the detectives did not appreciate his intrusion or unwillingness to perform his job to the best of his abilities. The episode stayed with me, and like all great TV writing, it made me think about myself and my career aspirations.

Job Shaming: Mr. Geoffrey Owens pictured below

It seems like there’s been a job shaming culture of late. I guess it’s always been around, but due to social media a situation can become viral easily. I’m speaking in particular about the job shaming of actor Geoffrey Owens, formerly of The Cosby Show. Though the story goes back awhile; a picture was taken and shared with the world of the esteemed actor, Mr. Owens as he was working in between acting gigs at a Trader Joe’s in New Jersey. The spineless woman that leaked the picture obviously took frolic in wanting to embarrass him, but Mr. Owens, an extremely intelligent man made no apologies for an honest days work. I won’t belabor it here, just Google his responses. I found them almost profound. I have mad respect for Geoffrey Owens and will never feel ashamed for honestly trying to make ends meet.

In my almost 40 years of punching a clock, with only a decade or more before retirement, I look back and honestly appreciate every day job I’ve held. I didn’t rob, steal or cheat anyone for pay and I’ve learned the value of a good work ethic and even learned some valuable lessons from the corporate world and applied them to my own business. I’m not saying that everyday of my 9 to 5 is a good day, but I’ll never curse it again because the reality is: (it may be a bitter pill to swallow) I may never reap the monetary rewards from the writing career I’ve dreamt about for most of my life. Nothing is promised. In the meantime I’ll keep punching that clock and investing in my dream: the book formatting, book covers, advertising and professional photos. Everything that helps me express my passion. Yes, the day job, I have mad respect for it.

The End

The show premiered as a series on ABC, September 22, 1976, ironically the same day as the publication of “Girl’s Night”. I swear it wasn’t planned!

For those that know me well, what inspired me to write “Girl’s Night” should come as no surprise. As a young gay boy I was obsessed with the TV series Charlie’s Angels, the original, and its original leads: Kate Jackson, Farrah Fawcett-Majors (then), Jaclyn Smith, and Cheryl Ladd, the latter who replaced Farrah after the first season. Cheryl actually became my favorite as the spunky, but relatable Kris Munroe, the little sister of Fawcett’s Jill Munroe.

Gorgeous girls with big hair, bell bottoms, platform shoes and guns, fighting the bad guys. It was pure escapism and tailor made for my vivid imagination; it kick-started my favor of crime/detective fiction.

The show stayed with me, even to this day, but as I matured and my writing skills matured, I longed to somehow express a similar plot with more of my signature expression. A few decades later, during the explosion of “Chick Lit” which I believe Charlie’s Angels somehow inspired, I got the idea to write a stand alone short story about four, female, high school friends that reunite, late thirty-something women that get together and become involved in a crime mystery. After I had finished it, I realized it was a combo of Charlie’s Angels and the late 90’s popular, “Sex And The City”, a show I had never watched, but knew it played well to the celebrated, empowered, successful, martini sipping girlfriend culture that had become popular, thankfully. Even my tagline of Girl’s Night is: Martinis & Murder.

Throw in my favorite female murder mystery, early 70’s Movie of The Week classic, “Five Desperate Women”, in my opinion the precursor to Charlie’s Angels which was also an Aaron Spelling production, I had found my groove. I’ll focus solely on Five Desperate Women in a future post, not sure when.

I dare not give too much of Girl’s Night away, however, Tamara, Rita, Melissa and Lisa finally meet up at a swanky martini joint in Chicago’s South Loop neighborhood. Through the years they had mostly been in contact with each other on social media reunions. Right away their familiar chemistry as close friends from high school kicks in: They were very close, like sisters with all the dynamics like, competitiveness, love and envy, all rolled up into one complicated ball, mix in a little crime and you’ve got it.

After writing Girl’s Night, I put it on the shelf and started working on other projects, almost completely forgetting about it until I took an inventory of my short stories. I had never intended on Girl’s Night being more than a one time short, but as I read it again, I realized how well it would work as a short read series. I revised it, made one major change to a characters fate, and was ready to write the follow up: Girl’s Night: Disco Night. It was my direct homage to Charlie’s Angels and the 70’s. I’ll go into that one more when it’s ready for publication.

I can’t deny that Girl’s Night, like Charlie’s Angels, is pure escapism. It’s totally unrealistic for four high school friends to get involved in crimes at every reading, however I hope to entertain an audience that likes to have fun, and as unrealistic as certain elements are, I want to blend in the realism of today, such as friendships, dating, loneliness and crime that we face in our society like never before. I hope you’ll enjoy reading Girl’s Night.

https://www.amazon.com/Girls-Night-Franchot-ebook/dp/B07Y8KNBJ7

When I got the idea for “Living Right”, I wasn’t quite sure where it came from. I wanted to do a younger person, older person relationship drama with a little religion thrown in there, but after I wrote it, it felt like something was a little familiar to me personally.

It made me think back to my own mother, Gladys Reaves and what I learned as I became an adult. Mama, as we affectionately called her, left our father when we were fairly young. I was eight and my sister Carol was ten. she took us from Chicago to her hometown of Hopewell Virginia, but that didn’t work out as planned for very long so she brought us back to Chicago. It was tough for her. She was still young, in her thirties without much money or shelter. We bounced around a bit, but never once was her love for us in question. To keep us off the street she took the help of the older ladies she met along the way. Most of the ladies she befriended were nice, but one lady in particular, Mrs. Smith, had an agenda.

Mrs. Smith is no longer with us so I’ll tread carefully, however, the truth is the truth. I won’t say Mrs. Smith hadn’t been kind to mama because she did help us in our times of need; bringing food, loaning money and at times being a shoulder for mama to lean on, but as a youngster watching, I noticed things about Mrs. Smith, subtle things, that made me uncomfortable. I was a perceptive kid, feisty and spoke my mind about it to mama, but she wasn’t ready to hear me.

I vividly recall one weekend morning I was in the kitchen of our modest tenement, frying eggs for breakfast, Mrs. Smith happened to come over with bags of food which she did often enough. She wanted to prove that we were starving; she wanted to save the day. This particular morning, seeing mama’s 13 year old boy frying eggs from a carton she hadn’t given, remarked, “What are you doing making breakfast?!” almost with a bit of sarcasm in her tone. She was obviously stunned that I was making breakfast without a contribution from her. It angered me so I ignored her and flipped my eggs over. I was not friendly to Mrs. Smith.

Many years later, when I was all grown, I believe mama was becoming suspicious of Mrs. Smith’s true intentions. By this time, mama had found a very nice apartment in the city and was able to afford nicer things, like a nice rug she’d been wanting. Mrs. Smith came over to the apartment, her first visit there. Walking through the door she looked around, but never commented on the apartment, but told mama, “You’re moving into one of my buildings!” She had said it with such vigor and authority, like mama was a child and couldn’t find a decent place on her own. Mrs. Smith had become little more than a slum lord, having bought buildings in neighborhoods we didn’t care for, and on top of that, mama discovered through a mutual friend that Mrs. Smith had made a comment about the rug, saying to the friend, “I wonder how she could afford a rug like that?” Afterwards, their friendship was never the same.

Ultimately, Mrs. Smith was the older woman that took my struggling mother under her wing, but wanted to keep her there. Mama was scared and insecure at the time, recently separated with two children. Mrs. Smith played on those facts and was manipulative. She was jealous of mama’s spirit, youth and promise. She didn’t want her to become successful, but wanted to take credit for whatever she was able to achieve. Mama did achieve, and it went against Mrs. Smith agenda. She wanted to keep an upper hand, maintain her charitable appearance to feed her own insecurities, which were many.

With “Living Right”, I took a different approach, involving romance and religion, but the message is the same. Some friends want to keep you where you are and take credit for your accomplishments. Do you know anyone like that?

The End

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/958524

This short story is posted in its entirety, however you have the option to purchase it with it’s funky little Chicago el artwork for your own reader.

Man, I was tired that day. I’m always tired after work, but on that particular day I had worked late and it was extremely busy, and to top it off, It was a hot summer in the city. It was late August; the entire month had been high temperatures and humidity. I welcomed the coming fall. At about 9:13pm, right before going down in the Roosevelt Street subway, I contemplated taking the bus. The bus was above ground thus cooler. The only issue I had with the bus is that it took so long to get home. I decided on the subway. I’d be home in less than a half hour, instead of an hour on the bus. I sucked it up and went down into hell. That’s exactly what it felt like in the subway. It was miserable. Within minutes I could feel the sweat dripping down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. I leaned forward on the platform, looking for the train. I didn’t see it, though the train going south had roared into the station. The train platform became mobbed with people exiting the train. All I kept thinking is how tired I was. I wanted a seat whenever the train came. Was it a Cubs game? I figured surely the game had started by then. I quickly checked the CTA transit app on my phone. The Howard train would arrive in two minutes. Thank God!

***

My mind went blank from the heat, and then I heard the Howard train in the distance. I was so grateful. Soon the train had pulled into the station. The doors split apart and I got on. It felt good and icy on the car. The air conditioner was pumped up. It was a blessing. Not too many people got on. I sat down in the nearest seat, closest to the doors; the side seats, where I could look at the seats directly across from me. Nobody sat there. The train sped out of the Roosevelt station.

I was starting to relax a bit. The cool from the air conditioner was definitely the main contributor. I put on my headphones and looked down at my phone, opening iTunes and scanning my playlists. After making my selection and listening to contemporary jazz, the train pulled into the next station which was Harrison. The doors opened and people got on, but not many. I really wasn’t paying attention to anything, only listening to Paul Hardcastle. As the train left the station I knew someone sat down in the seats across from me, but I didn’t look up, instead I read a funny text that a close friend had just sent me. I texted her back. We went on a bit, texting each other until the train reached the Monroe station. Again, not too many people got on, but it was well past rush hour. As the train pulled out I looked around, finally noticing the young lady that sat down across from me two stations ago. Subconsciously, I found myself staring at the young lady, but didn’t know exactly why. Something was off about her appearance, but before I figured it out, I had to be respectful and direct my eyes away from her. I looked back down at my phone. It was rude to stare. Mama had raised me that way, besides, I was uncomfortable when people stared at me. But I was curious nonetheless. There was something about the young woman’s face. What had happened to her?  With my eyes on my phone, I was opening and closing apps, but my mind was still on the young woman sitting across from me. Nothing else seemed strange about her. She seemed fairly young, African American, dressed casually in jeans, sneakers and a yellow t-shirt. I looked up quickly and caught a partial view of her t-shirt at the bottom. It was stained with dried blood. What?!  The young lady looked in my direction and I quickly shifted my eyes back down to my phone. She caught on, noticed me staring. I didn’t know if she was staring back at me then. I didn’t know what to do and was embarrassed at the thought of her seeing me stare. Regardless, it was rude of me.

Still looking down at my phone, not really into it, I felt I had to do something with myself to appear normal, in case the young lady had been insulted by my stare. The train screeched into the station at Grand and State. A larger crowd of people got on. I looked toward the doors and saw several people look in the young woman’s direction. Almost every person that boarded the train cut their eyes over to her. What else was it about her? I had seen her blood stained t-shirt, but where was the blood coming from? My curiosity was becoming aroused again, but I kept my eyes glued to my phone. As crowded as the train was getting, in my peripheral vision I could tell that nobody sat next to the young woman.

A couple of stops past Grand and State, the train stopped at the Clark and Division station. Two older ladies got on. They were together, looked like friends, maybe work friends. I saw them immediately look at the young woman, gaping openly before they even took seats. They sat down in two seats that were cater-corner from where I was sitting and the young woman across from me. My curiosity about the young woman was becoming overwhelming. I had to know what had happened to her. I could only get limited knowledge from the people around me, those that were rude enough to stare at her. I didn’t want to stare at other people either, but looked around the train in such a way that I wouldn’t attract too much attention. I caught several sets of eyes, all trying to take inconspicuous glances at the young woman. When I looked at the two older ladies, they had started a conversation, but their eyes kept looking at the young woman in intervals. What was I to do next? My curiosity had reached desperation levels. I had to look at the young woman myself. I had to know what was the matter with her. I felt like a hypocrite; other people were obviously staring at her, even turning to other people, like me, to see their reactions, silently in unison, collecting a club of sneaky, judgmental glances. I started to wonder if I was indeed a hypocrite for not staring like them. Whatever the case, I did have feelings and didn’t want to make the young woman uncomfortable. Still I wanted to know, insanely.

***

By the time the train had reached the Fullerton station, I was ready to take a look at her. I had to. 6 more stops I’d be home. I wouldn’t rest until I knew why so many eyeballs were on her. All I knew about was her bloody t-shirt. She was still sitting across from me alone. Nobody wanted to sit with her. My peripheral vision had been working overtime, making me dizzy. I looked at the two older ladies. Before they had been talking loud, in the open about their day, homemade bread and the Clinton and Trump debates, but they started whispering, all the while taking glances at the young woman. They were talking about her. The shorter woman of the two even had a pained, worried look on her face. As I looked around the train again, old passengers and the new ones that got on at Belmont were gaping at her. Yes, it was my turn. Time for me to look, time for the mystery to be over.

The train doors opened at Wrigley Field, the Addison station. A woman walked on with a small child, a little boy. I took him to be about three or four years old. The boy immediately looked at the young woman. His innocent eyes grew wide with terror and his mouth opened as if he was going to scream.

“Mama?!” he cried.

His mother looked too, grimaced, and then pulled him away in another direction. “Come on!” she said.

That time I knew I had to look. I tried as inconspicuously as I could. It was her lips. Her top lip was normal, but her bottom lip was severely cut and swollen twice it’s size. I tried not to react, but the sight of it was unnerving. I looked back down at my phone. Oh God!  It looked like her lip had been sliced with a knife. Thick, dried, almost black looking blood was protruding through a large open wound. It had to be painful. It made her face look deformed. How could she sit there like that? Just staring into space. What happened to her? Had she been in a fight? Her lip was so savagely cut that it had to be a blade. Jesus! 

***

A few more minutes had gone by. We were pulling out of the Sheridan station. I was still looking down at my phone, but didn’t even see what I was looking at. Three more stops would be my destination. I felt so bad for her, but didn’t know what to do. Should I do something? Was it even any of my business? What could I do anyway? My eyes went up to her quickly and I scanned her lip. It looked like fresh red blood was starting to seep through the dried blood. And I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but it looked like her lip was even more swollen than minutes before. Oh no!  The young woman needed help. The expression on her face showed that she was in pain and she moved up to sit on the edge of the seat, starting to rock back and forth; yes, she was in pain.

***

We pulled out of the Wilson station. I was two more stops from home. New boarders at Wilson gaped at her. The old gapers were settling down, even myself a little. Everybody going back to their transit routines. That was it. Another strange sight on the CTA. There were plenty, had seen them myself. I had been riding the city  trains and buses since I was ten years old. I’m 52 now. That’s a lot of years on public transit. Chicago has one of the best public transit systems in the country. I’ve seen a lot of things, weirder than a young woman with a cut lip, but something about it bothered me. I appeared to be the only person worried about her. What had been gaping material a few minutes ago was now an after-thought, something others and myself would talk about later. I cut my eyes to two college age young men. They noticed her. They started hunching each other, laughing and both started doing something with their phones. They were trying to veil it, but were laughing silently, but hysterically. They were sneaking pictures of her. Soon, somewhere in Chicago, the country, the world, that wounded young woman’s picture would be uploaded for everyone’s amusement. A century ago, people stood in line at sideshows gaping at Siamese twins, bearded ladies, giants and little people. Now we’re amused online: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc., at a woman with a severely cut lip. Go over, talk to her, ask her if she’s alright.

I had lost track of everything. My stop was called out over the auto-recorded intercom: Argyle. I quickly looked at her and saw fresh blood dripping from her lip. I was alarmed. The train had settled into the Argyle station and I sprang from my seat. I ran to the doors, waiting for them to open. I wanted to look back at her so bad, but I couldn’t. I was just like everybody else. The only thing that mattered to me was my world, my stop, my relaxation at home. I saw the two older ladies get up. Was it their stop too?

The doors opened and I got out. I walked the platform toward the stairs, about to go down. As the train slowly pulled out of the station, I caught a glimpse through the window of the train: The two older ladies I thought had got off with me, were standing over the young woman talking to her. The train sped up and was quickly leaving my view. I headed down the stairs from the platform, hearing the familiar sound of the train screeching over my head. I let out a sigh of relief. Somebody actually cared.

The End

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/957608

I’ve been riding public transit in Chicago for decades. Barely anything I see on the bus, el or subway phases me. Most of the time I’m so much into my own commuting world with my phone or whatever portable entertainment is popular at the time, the world could end on the train and I wouldn’t be the wiser. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, especially in today’s unpredictable world, but that’s just just the way it is in a big city. Public transit is a way of life, almost like breathing. I’ve never owned a car.

The less jaded side of me still marvels at the city trains. A massive transit system reminds me that I live in a big, bustling metropolis. Having spent most of my life in Chicago and a decade on the East Coast, I’ve relied heavily on public transit. From New York’s gargantuan MTA, with its seemingly never ending, complex subway system, Boston’s intriguing T, to Chicago’s awe worthy elevated trains; how they screech over head in the densely built up Loop. As a kid, the el frightened me, but I also loved it.

Public transit in big cities move millions of people. With millions of people comes millions of stories. Public transit riders alone provide a never ending supply of stories. I could make an entire career out of the CTA alone, but I won’t do that, although, you may get another story or two from me that may include a ride on the Windy City’s famous el.

Some of the best people watching is by riding public transit, and I must say, the Chicago el, bus and subway has given me some of the most diverse people watching of any other transit system I’ve taken.

What are some of the strangest things I’ve seen riding public transit in Chicago: Rats on the subway? No, not yet. That distinction belongs to New York City. When I was living there, a rat accompanied me to the MTA vending machine where I hurriedly loaded up. In Boston, one of the fattest rats I’d ever seen followed me down the stairs of the T, as I was stumbling down coming from the Beantown Pub, a great pub I must add.

On Chicago’s el I’ve witnessed: 3 card monte scams played on unsuspecting tourists, a bitter ventriloquist who cursed passengers out with his dummy, street vendors selling condoms and getting into fights over train car territory, people moving furniture on the el, how they lifted a loveseat over the turnstile, brought it on the train and used it as their seat, and finally, a young woman that took a shit in the seat in front of me. Yes! I had never gagged until then. She caused the entire O’Hare Blue Line train to be taken out of service due to the incredible stench. Who knows what else I may have missed.

Then comes summer, 2016, August. It was hotter than Satan’s ass. Coming from work I got on the Subway. I was thrilled that the ac was pumped up. I sat down and noticed something odd about the young woman sitting across from me. It took a few stops and a few peripheral stares, but I noticed something about her lip. Now that may not seem like strangest thing to see on the el, but it did inspire me to write “The Lip”. I won’t give the story away here because I want you to read it. It’s a true story. After writing it, I realized the story was about more than her lip. It was about us, a society of judgement passing people and how we reacted to the woman’s obvious dilemma. Myself, guilty as charged. I desperately wanted to stare at her, but instead relied on the reactions of the passengers around me. The gaping old ladies, the child that screamed at the sight of her, and the young frat boys that laughed and actually took pictures of her with their phones. Ultimately the story was about the people watchers, not so much the young woman. Please read The Lip. I’m curious to know what you think.

Next Time: The Lip.

Writing fiction comes easy to me, but I don’t take it for granted, however, writing about myself is much more difficult. I suppose you’ll learn more about me as you read my blog over time, instead of on a website -About Me- page. I really don’t have a lot of fancy credentials to brag about anyway.

This writing is basically an introduction to Franchot Inspired, a blog intended to share with you what inspires me to write the fiction I write.

I love fiction, especially short stories. That’s mostly what I write. I have nothing against novels, even wrote a few myself as well as a full length non fiction book that I’ll go into much later. My love of short stories started when I was around twelve years old, simultaneously with my passion for episodic television. Mysteries and crime fiction stood out. I was obsessed with Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. It had, and still has some of the best short stories. As for television, some of my favorite shows were: Dark Shadows, Land of The Giants, Charlie’s Angels, and later in the early to mid 80’s, Dynasty and Spenser: For Hire. And there were some excellent 90 minute TV movies of the week, most notably Five Desperate Women, Bad Ronald, The Night Stalker and Trapped with James Brolin, all of what I consider early 70’s TV classics.

I already had a vivid imagination and these short stories and TV shows inspired the creativity in me. By the time I was in my mid teens, I was acting out full four act dramas, doing all the characters, improvisational style before I even knew what improv was. I was doing this in the living room of our modest tenement in Chicago’s Bronzeville neighborhood, and recording them on a tape recorder (yes, a tape recorder).

Eventually I started writing my ideas down, turning them into short stories. They meant so much to me. I tried novels, but they didn’t stick with me until many years later. I wrote a lot of short stories and soon learned how to submit them to the magazines that published short fiction. I failed miserably, most rejected by Ellery Queen Magazine. I was hurt, but learned not to take it personally. I wasn’t good at writing whodunit or locked room mysteries. My crime dramas were more reflective of real life, kind of gritty with a street element. I had to learn and grow as a writer; I’m still learning. In 1981 I sent a short story called ‘Suspicions’ to Chicago Magazine. I got rejected there too, but it came with a critique that I never forgot. The editor said, “Suspicions has its moments, but it’s not suited for our magazine.” Has its moments.

I remained a closet writer for many years while I worked a myriad of day jobs. I still have a day job (not complaining). I got serious about writing in 2000. I started a novel that year, a long, exhausting novel that I finished about two years later. I wrote two more novels during the decade. I still have them and may resurrect them someday, maybe break them down into shorts. I’m back to writing short stories, exclusively. Again, I’m not anti-novel, and at some point may tackle them again, but I’ll have to be fully inspired to do so.

I love the impact of a great short story and embrace their brevity, something you can enjoy, but finish in one or two readings. Even a novella can be read quickly. The belief is that attention spans are getting shorter, for readers as well as writers, but I can’t fully buy into it, after all, a good story will be read whether it’s a short story or a novel.

For me, short stories, especially a series, more closely resembles life. They’re told in never ending chunks of time. Stand alone shorts can be powerful too. The great ones leave a lasting impression for many years. Episodic TV shows are much like short stories, bite sized pieces of entertainment. I love it! Writing a good script for a TV show or movie is also something I’ve dreamed of, but I would’t be good with the politics it brings. I’ll post about that in the near future.

Right now I’m happy writing short stories and sharing them with you, along with my inspiration for writing them. I have a growing catalog of stand alone shorts and series of shorts. I hope you visit my blog from time to time to read them. I plan to post some of them here very soon. Please check back!

Up Next: Inspiration for: The Lip